


so in love with lovin' you

by khirimochi (NekoAisu)



Series: posthumous [11]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Background Relationships, Baking, Bread, Culinarian Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Gen, M/M, Mild Spoilers for Red Mage Questline (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Mutual Pining, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Original Character(s), Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Red Mage Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trans Male Character, X'rhun has one (1) vice and it's Fahmi, froggy bread is modern romance, mostly tagging to be safe;;, wow that's a legit tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25291552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi
Summary: “We aren’t married to each other, lass,” he manages, hoping his voice is not as strained as he feels. “Fahmi is married, yes, but not to me.”Ihvah frowns. “Why not?”“What?”“Whynot?”She repeats. “You like him. Mister Fahmi likes you. Miss Rowena says that when two people like each other very much, they should get married and have a biiiig fancy wedding!”
Relationships: Arya Gastaurknan & Warrior of Light, X'rhun Tia & Arya Gastaurknan, X'rhun Tia & Warrior of Light, X'rhun Tia/Original Character(s), X'rhun Tia/Warrior of Light
Series: posthumous [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1266878
Comments: 11
Kudos: 17





	so in love with lovin' you

**Author's Note:**

> [Fahmi pics because he is very handsome and you should see his charming catboy face](https://twitter.com/i/events/1250252460381351936?s=20)

Watching the Warrior of Light fashion frog-shaped bread for a host of young Miqo’te children was not how X’rhun thought he would spend his afternoon. He had assumed they’d continue with training, perhaps take the time as an opportunity to help Arya improve her healing arts, but here he is at a table in the Hard Place, waiting for Fahmi to finish providing every orphan in a thirty fulm radius with charmingly green sweet buns. He wraps each and every one with a thin sheet of pastry paper before handing it over, smiling when the children laugh with delight. It’s very different from his usual jobs, but it’s certainly not for the worse. 

“Fahmi, Fahmiiiii,” one of the children sings, “can mine have one  _ biiig _ eye? Or three arms!”

“Mine, too!”

“And mine!”

“Can it have a tail?”

To the Keeper’s benefit, the half-finished tray of dough balls yet to be baked are not fully assembled into frogs. Fahmi swaps out some bits until the children are suitably satisfied before shooing them back from the counter. He picks up the tray and strides into the back room to let them bake. The moment he’s out of view, they turn their attention on X’rhun.

“Are you mister Fahmi’s friend?” One of them asks, brown-furred ears large in comparison to his head. He bounces from one foot to the other, uneven spots of flour dusted across his forehead. 

Another child cuts in with a shrill question of her own. “Where are your  _ ears?!  _ Hats are so uncomfy for me! How do you do it, mister?”

“You’re tall!” Her friend cries. 

Soon enough, they’re all chattering over each other. X’rhun tries to answer their questions one at a time, but it’s not until Fahmi comes back and hops over the counter to pick up a particularly unruly kit that he manages to take a breath between one word and the next. 

“What did I tell y’bout askin’ and not  _ waitin’?”  _

The children quiet down. “I’m sorry, Fahmi’s friend,” says the same girl who worried over the state of his ears. 

“It’s quite alright, lass,” he replies. “If you can repeat your question, I will answer it.”

She nods sharply, determination painted in the set of her jaw and brows, and asks, “How d’you wear the hat? Doesn’t it, you know…  _ hurt?” _

X’rhun laughs. “It was uncomfortable when I was a younger man, I will admit, but it has been many a year since then. I have grown used to it.” The little girl looks at him with awe. He takes off his hat, ears flicking a few times while he adjusts to the increase in unfiltered noise, and hands it to her. “Would you like to try wearing it? It may be easier on your head than mine.”

She gasps, reaching for it, and X’rhun helps her put it on over her ears. She fiddles with the feathers before grinning brightly. “This! Is! So! Cool! Thank you, mister—uh…”

“X’rhun.”

“Mister Rhun!”

“And your name?”

“Ihvah!” 

X’rhun nods and she bounces off to show off her borrowed hat with a wave and gleeful laugh. Fahmi sits atop the table next to him and hums. 

“You seem awfully pleased. Are your rolls coming out better than expected?”

“Y’d be a good father,” Fahmi says, and then promptly shuts his mouth. He shrinks into himself somewhat before backpedalling with a rushed,  _ “‘Pologies, that wasn’ good o’ me.” _

X’rhun pats him on the knee (and barely avoids having to excuse himself on grounds of inappropriate thoughts pertaining to his companion’s thighs) before remarking, “I never thought I would be one for children, truth be told. Arya has been quite the surprise.”

“It’s not jus’ you raisin’ her, now, either. Y’got me.”

He laughs, smiling in a way he knows is a little lopsided and a touch too affectionate to be proper, and tries not to let his chest hurt too heavily with the knowledge that he is pining after a married man. A married man who is co-parenting a young lady of great magical aptitude with him. 

(And sharing beds in inn rooms with him, tending to his wounds when needed, and guarding his back when they take up the Red to protect those around them.)

Maybe it’s a fool’s resolution to attempt to stay as comrades, but X’rhun has never been good at letting go. 

_ (Though he cannot say what he is clinging to—whether it be love he cannot have, or the friendship he is terrified of shattering—he has no intention of allowing it to slip from his grasp.) _

Fahmi’s face is full of light when he smiles, the openness to his expression brighter than the bleached scar tissue stretching across his brow and cheeks. It’s warmer than sunlight—warmer than anyone X’rhun has ever held—and fills his heart to bursting. It very nearly hurts. 

He distracts himself by talking. “Has Arya been able to learn aught of your recipes?”

“A little. She’s good at cakes.”

“Is that why we had—“

“Ten o’ those teacakes,” Fahmi confirms, nodding. “She ate a good four o’ them before bringin’ the nicer ones back f’r you.”

X’rhun sighs, shaking his head. “I’d have eaten anything that lass prepared. Aesthetics aside, she is not the type to serve things she knows are less than palatable.”

Fahmi looks at him for a long moment, just staring sightlessly, before placing a hand on his shoulder. “Like I said, y’r a good father. Arya and I agree.”

A timer dings in the background. He blinks. “Oh,” he says, tone suggesting disappointment, “the bread’s ready.” He hops off the table and hurries over to the kitchen without further comment.

X’rhun waits for him to round the corner before burying his face in his hands and  _ groaning.  _ Ihvah pops up and pats him on the head, his hat sitting lopsided on her own. “There, there, mister Rhun. Mister Fahmi is very dumb sometimes.”

Another child gasps, slapping a hand over their mouth. “That’s rude, Ihvah!”

She shrugs, looking everywhere but her fellows. “It’s true,” she argues, pulling the hand off of her mouth. “He’s nice, but dumb sometimes. Like when he was taking to miss Rowena and agreed to clean up her storage. Miss Rowena’s storage is the  _ worst!” _

“Oh! What about that other time?” Asks one of the kits. “The one with the ring!”

X’rhun raises a brow. He does his utmost not to interrupt their storytelling session despite his want to ask what ring, exactly, are they talking about. 

“Ooooh,” says Ihvah, “that one is good. Have you heard it, mister Rhun?”

“Should I have?” He asks. 

She looks at him like he just did something heinous. “Of  _ course _ you should have! Mister Fahmi said he was going to propose—“

“And I did,” Fahmi says, approaching with a basket of wrapped, frog-shaped buns. He passes them out to the kids who hadn’t gotten their fair share earlier before offering X’rhun one, tail swaying gently in anticipation. “Taste test for me?”

Ihvah looks between them. She narrows her eyes and scrutinizes them, nose scrunching and tiny bobtail flicking to match. Fahmi simply passes X’rhun the little bread frog. He is none the wiser to her staring. It’s only after the Seeker has given him feedback on his latest doughy endeavor that she comes to some unknowable but important conclusion. 

Rushing off, Ihvah drags a few other children along with her. They chatter in a corner of the Hard Place and keep glancing back at where Fahmi is listening to some of the younger kits give him suggestions for further frog colors (purple is apparently in high demand among the smallfolk).

She takes nearly half a bell to discuss with her peers before popping up at the table again. X’rhun is only mildly suspicious of her motives (because what self respecting child would look so determined if not for the purpose of conning Fahmi out of more baked goods) up until she opens her mouth. Then, it turns to mortification.

“Mister Fahmi, you should have told us that you and mister Rhun were  _ married!” _

Fahmi simply tilts his head, gears turning slowly in his brain, and says casually, “Y’ should have told me we were married, Rhun.”

The sentence plays on repeat in his brain, bouncing around like an overeager phooka, and X’rhun can only manage a vague  _ ha  _ in response. He is sorely tempted to lay down the sword and become a teacher solely so he can learn how to explain to these children that Fahmi is married to the crown prince of Doma, not him, and is technically Crown Consort as a result. 

He is not married to someone like him. That would be a disservice to the both of them. 

(Though he wants to be able to have that so acutely it sets his chest to aching. He wants to take the risk of simply  _ asking— _ take the risk of opening his mouth and taking knee, ring in hand, to see if Fahmi would even consider him and his affections as worthy.)

“We aren’t married to each other, lass,” he manages, hoping his voice is not as strained as he feels. “Fahmi is married, yes, but not to me.”

Ihvah frowns. “Why not?”

“What?” 

“Why  _ not?” _ She repeats. “You like him. Mister Fahmi likes you. Miss Rowena says that when two people like each other very much, they should get married and have a biiiig fancy wedding!”

From the corner of his eye, X’rhun could have sworn he saw Fahmi flush red. “My husband’s name is Hien,” he says, pausing to reach for the correct words and not just whatever comes to mind first. “He lives… a long way from ‘ere. You’ll probably never meet ‘im.”

“So… if you  _ weren’t  _ married to, uh, Heen? Hein?”

“Hien,” Fahmi supplies. 

“Hien,” she repeats, nodding solemnly, “who is not here to enjoy froggy bread, you could marry mister Rhun?” 

X’rhun is about to say that  _ no,  _ he could not just marry him when it hits him that Fahmi never said he did not like him. He flounders and Ihvah takes that as an opportunity to barel onward, asking if Hien is nice, if he’s tall like mister Rhun, and if he makes Fahmi happy. 

Fahmi answers her questions patiently, trying his best to explain properly and not just nod or make vague gestures with his hands the way he does with the Scions. He lets her talk and listens intently, one ear turned toward her while the other faces X’rhun. He turns when he hears the Seeker rise from his chair, asking, “Y’ leavin’?”

He shakes his head before remembering that Fahmi cannot see more than vague blobs of light. “Just for a moment,” he says. “I’ll be back shortly.” He then beats a hasty retreat out of the Hard Place and toward where Arya has been reading through some of Fahmi’s old tomes on healing arts. 

Rowena gives him a look full of pity when he steps into the cultural center. He makes a beeline for his protégé and acts like he did not make eye contact with her. That woman can see into his soul. 

“Arya,” he greets, “how go your studies?”

The young lady in question lays her head down atop the cover of a book titled  _ White Magic for Non-Padjali Folk: a definitive guide  _ like the embossing won’t press patterns onto her cheek and  _ groans.  _

“That bad?”

“I cannot make sense of the differences between vital aether and healing aether—and then there are  _ aspects  _ to them,” she mumbles. “I  _ will _ learn it, but my head is spinning enough at the moment that words look more like soup than sentences.”

He pats her on the back before closing up the few open tomes and stacking them in a neat pile. “What say you to a break, lass?”

“Yes,” she says, simple and succinct. She stands from her chair, stretching, and her back cracks loudly enough that X’rhun winces. They walk side by side out of the cultural center. Arya squints against the midafternoon sun blinking a few times while her eyes adjust to the brightness of the outdoors. “Where to?”

“The Hard Place.”

“He’s still making food for them?” She asks, eyeing X’rhun’s bare head. 

He nods. “Aye, and a small Miqo’te by the name of Ihvah is the proud steward of my hat.”

“You look a good bit… more casual?”

“Duelists of the Red are expected to be put together. It’s a balance—“

“Of responsibility and self-expression. You told us yesterday when Fahmi forgot to button up his shirt again,” she says, interrupting him. “It isn’t a bad look.” 

He reaches up to touch his hair and huffs a laugh. It’s becoming more grey than silver. “You flatter this old man.”

“If you’re old, then that means Fahmi is, too.”

“He’s still in his thirties,” he argues, walking up the steps to the Hard Place. “He doesn’t even have any greys, Arya.”

She just skips ahead of him and opens the door, stepping inside and holding it for him to follow suit. 

The scene inside is different from what he left. Fahmi sits on the floor, legs crossed and a kit dozing off in his lap, while Ihvah and her peers listen to him tell some tale he’s probably sanitized to keep the children from crying over whatever horrors really occurred. He pats the spaces next to him when they approach. 

Arya steps carefully around little hands and feet until she can sit down and fold her legs under her next to him. X’rhun skirts the group and slips into the last open spot, thigh pressed up against Fahmi’s, and does his best not to think thoughts that are anything other than platonic or professional. 

Fahmi passes Arya the last remaining bun (and of course it’s one of the sesame seed spotted frogs she likes the most. He dotes after her like any father would) and continues his story once the pastry paper has stopped crinkling. “An’ there we were, all dressed up f’r the wedding—“  _ Ah. So it’s this type of tale.  _ “—when Ahir said ‘e got word from the Front about needin’ help. I didn’ think ‘bout it. Jus’ went an’ used the currents to get there. Hien was… charmed. Slightly upset, but not with me. He isn’ the type t’ get angry with what I do.”

“What about your suit?” Ihvah asks, rocking back and forth where she sits.

Fahmi laughs sheepishly and fiddles with a lock of hair. He is very quiet when he says, “It got  _ ruined.” _

The children gasp. Ihvah slaps her hands over her mouth and whispers, “Mister Fahmi, that’s no good.”

“It was… embarrassing,” he manages, red rising to his cheeks. “We got married in our usual gear b’cause of me.” There's an edge to how he says it, something pointed inward like he intends to wound himself, and X’rhun cannot stand it.

“And what of that is unfavorable?” He says, smirking like he’s intent on making some poor maid swoon. “Considering what you wear on the daily, what is there not to ado—admire.” 

Ihvah gives him another one of her squinty thinking looks before asking, “So… what  _ did  _ you wear?” 

“I c’n show you.” He gently moves the kit sleeping in his lap onto Arya’s before standing. There’s a vague chiming sound, the type of far away  _ ching  _ that makes X’rhun want to peer around a corner to figure out where it came from, and a wash of blue aether. Fahmi’s clothing flickers. 

X’rhun feels his jaw drop. He can’t help but stare. Arya says something he only half processes— _ “How beautiful!”— _ because there is Fahmi in a gown and veil. He looks out of place in the middle of the orphanage, but the strangeness of the setting is less pressing than the fact that that is a  _ Gridanian wedding dress.  _

Ihvah oohs and ahhs over it before saying seriously, “Mister Fahmi, this is not armor.”

“It’s glamour,” he answers. “I had it left over from when Aym’ric helped me get it commissioned with th’ war bein’ over, said their seamsters needed t’use up some o’ the extra material. A friend picked th’ design.”

X’rhun is not an idiot. He really, truly is not. He may be prone to self-denial and fits of mental fancy, but he has in no way taken leave of his senses. He knows his faults well enough to recognize exactly when he is not the cause of his troubles. The glamour was  _ intended  _ as wedding-wear. The fabric is rich and painstakingly embroidered with swirling floral motifs, the type of which he recognizes as a match to the white and red gear Fahmi wore once when his regular gear was being laundered. The lilies spill across the hems and stretch their silken stems in a way that accentuates the curve of his waist and the strength in his shoulders. It’s quite obviously  _ custom  _ and beyond that,  _ exquisite.  _

“Aym’ric said I d’served somethin’ nice after all o’ the chaos. Got this done with the design a… _ friend _ helped me make a while back.” 

His inflection is wrong when he says the word “friend.” X’rhun knows there is more than a simple bond there, but he also knows there is  _ pain.  _ No one would cover such obvious affection with so plain a term unless they had reason to. 

“Mister Fahmi,” Ihvah says, looking up at him, “you _ really _ need to marry mister Rhun.” 

And X’rhun stuffs half of a bread bun in his mouth before he can add on,  _ “Please and thank you.” _

Fahmi just laughs and pulls some fancy crowns and clips from his inventory, the items shimmering into being from amidst a spray of blue sparks and flickering afterimages, swapping Ihvah’s borrowed hat for a charming little tiara and passing the rest of the accessories out to the other children. He offers X’rhun his hat back and asks, “Care t’ help me show ‘em how the vows go?”

He takes his hat and puts it on front first before clearing his throat. He stands, offers a hand palm up, and smiles when Fahmi lays his atop it. “You’ll have to refresh my memory, I fear. It’s been a long while since the Twelve have graced me with being a best man or bodyguard within their chapel.”

Ihvah twirls around, holding her tiara in place, and cries, “Show me! Show meeeeeee! I want to see mister Fahmi walk down the aisle!”

Fahmi smiles, drawing closer, and whispers, “So, Rhun, just t’ rehearse a little, it goes like this…”

**Author's Note:**

> i made froggy bread because of this fic and it was Delicious
> 
> hmu on:  
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


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